There is no flood.
There is no drop of water on my tongue.
There is no memory of a fruitful time.
Raindrops, cold and wet and spiteful, taunt me as they rage against my window.
I want to feel their life on my nakedness.
I want them to feed my sight.
I want them to awaken my unknowns.
But my window is locked, and I have no energy to turn the latch.
My mind is lost in unending existence.
My heart pumps blackened dreams.
My soul seeks fruitful times.
Parched and weak, I wish for hail to break the glass and force a flood inside.